


A Crack in the Plaster

by RoxanneTucker



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, M/M, Threesome - F/M/M, Widowed, how to set up a threesome, motel sex, what happens in motels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-05-08 21:44:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14702967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoxanneTucker/pseuds/RoxanneTucker
Summary: She's pissed and exhausted and just wants the guys on the other side of her motel room wall to cool it with the headboard hammering. No one had hammered her headboard in awhile.But when a beautiful, sweaty, tattooed man wearing a sheet opens the door to her angry pounding, her anger burns away. And this pretty widow is left with feelings she hasn't felt in a very long time.





	A Crack in the Plaster

In the oversized men’s shirt she’d reclaimed from her son and worn workout shorts, she pounded on the motel door.

It was 3 a.m. and she’d only checked in two hours ago to this fleabag motel after the airline finally confirmed that she wasn’t making it out tonight and every decent hotel was booked because of the summer thunderstorm that closed JFK and stranded her in D.C. and she just really needed to get a few hours sleep before she made her way back to the airport at the break of dawn to jockey for a flight out but she couldn’t sleep because two people—two men it sounded like—we’re having waaaaaay too good of a time slamming their headboard into the wall next to her head.

She pounded again, feeling the exhaustion and anger and injustice—what she wouldn’t give for a little time and space and energy to allow a man to slam her headboard—rising through her fist, ready to break her hand through the door if she must to get these guys to shut the f—

Her next pound flew impotently through the air as the door lurched open.

“What?!” a husky voice barked out.

It must have been the sex smell. It wafted out into the stormy night, deep and bitter, musty and rich and familiar; she might be a 42-year-old widow but she still remembered the sex marathons she and her husband had when they were in their 20s. With it also came the smell of Irish Spring and oil, like the men inside had worked on a car and then showered it off before they…got to work.

So it must have been the sex smell that paralyzed her brain and stopped up her words and left her frozen, fist still in the air, as her eyes took a deep, pornographic gulp of the scene: the big man filling the doorway in front of her might have been the prettiest man she’d ever seen in real life. And he was shirtless—naked, actually—his hips wrapped in a sheet and nicks and scars and a tattoo over his fantastically thick torso and his short hair a sweaty mess and bright, bright green eyes stabbing at her. And behind him—oh, thank the good Lord she could see just between his shoulder and the door jam—was a second pretty man, ridiculous to call such a long, wide-shouldered man pretty, stretched out on the bed, his long dark hair equally sweaty, watching her with suspicion while he held the blanket up over him, hiding something beneath the cover.

She looked above his head and bit her lip to keep from whimpering: there was a crack in the plaster, the result of one of these pretty, giant men pounding his penis into the other one.

“Holy crap,” she breathed, feeling true awe for the first time in a very long time.

Somehow, that made the hulking man in the doorway lose his scowl. His face eased into a soft-and-amused smile. This time, she did whimper, watching what a smile did to those plush, blood-red lips. Lips abused by what he and the other man did to each other.

“Yeah?” he asked. His voice was whiskey fumes, smoky and intoxicating. She didn’t even care that he was laughing at her, laughing at her obvious befuddlement, the tired soccer mom in her makeshift, sexless pajamas gawking at his beauty.

“I…”

“What’s she need, Dean?” That one’s voice, from the bed, was tender in its gruffness. Dean. She met the man at the door’s eyes and felt a zing of want at the connection. He saw her. This was Dean. Hi Dean.

“Not sure yet, Sammy,” he called back and her mouth went as dry as a summer sidewalk. How long had it been since someone had said her name like that? Sammy.

Dean’s smile went up another notch and he kind of leaned on the door, pushing his shoulder out to her, his hand behind his back and calling attention to his big, beautiful bicep. “Whatcha need, sweetheart?”

“I…” She couldn’t catch her breath; she felt like she’d just finished one of those HIIT classes she despised. The quick breaths filled her lungs with the Dean-and-sex smell; she fed on them like an addict. “I…was going to tell you to keep it down.”

“Yeah?” He was nothing but delighted. “And now?”

He’d called her sweetheart in that gravel-strewn voice. His green eyes were on her and it gave her an electric hum to be under his gaze. “Now? I, um…” She laughed, what else could she do, barely protected from a rain storm by a cheap metal awning, under the gaze of a beautiful stranger with her nipples hard against her soft shirt, more aroused than she’d been in a spate of lonely and sad years. “I’m probably…um…I’ll probably just go back to my room and join in.”

Dean chuckled and it was syrup over the soft, secret parts of her. “Sure, sweetie, you can go back to your room,” he said as he walked back, slowly opening the door. He disappeared for a second—she heard something go down with a _thunk_ —before he appeared next to the wide-open door. “Or you can join in here.”

“Dean!” the man growled from the bed.

Jaw-dropped to the floor, she stared at the man in the bed who’d shot up to sitting, the blanket still at his waist, but everything above it—every inch of glorious, tanned, muscled, perfect shoulders and chest and abs and hips, like masculine beauty heightened with magic and steroids and wishing well dreams—exposed. His hair brushed his wide shoulders. His eyes touched her and her insides, warm and wet between her legs, gave a hard squeeze.

“Sorry ‘bout him,” he said with a touch of chagrin. She thought the other one was about her age, with those lickable lines around his eyes, but this one was younger than she was. His voice was warm, sweet honey. “He confuses real life with porn.”

She put a hand in her messy hair, pressed against her temple. “I seem to be having the same problem right now.”

Which was when the gaze of that one—the sweet, younger one—turned from kind to considering. To her astonishment, Sammy’s fox-like gaze traveled over her, from her face, over her breasts, down legs that suddenly felt very naked. She was in her glasses and her dead husband’s shirt and workout shorts with shot elastic. But when his eyes met her again, she felt sexier than she had since the last anniversary she’d shared with her husband, the last anniversary before they found out he was sick.

The devil was suddenly in Sammy’s wide smile. “I guess it’s only a problem if someone’s offended,” he said, and she wondered where they learned to talk like that, like they were using their voices to stroke skin. “If there’s no offense, then it’s an opportunity.” Without taking his eyes off of her, he leaned over and placed whatever had been under the cover on the floor. Then he straightened and patted the mattress next to him with a big, long-fingered hand. “Wanna come in?”

She knew there was oxygen in the rain-drenched air, knew there was sound as the storm pounded against the roof, knew there’d been strength in her knees when she’d marched furiously around the motel to bang on their door. But right now, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t hear, and had to lean her shoulder against the door jam to stay upright.

“Sammy, I—”

“It’s Sam,” he said, not unkindly, the ends of his hair stroking his cheekbones as he nodded his head at the other man. “Only he calls me Sammy.”

She twisted, leaned her back against the jam, let it support all of her weight as she looked at Dean. Dean who still stood there watching her, his thick fingers around the edge of the door, his big beautiful body just there, right there, mirroring hers as the sheet dipped just enough for her to see the muscle that started at the top of his pale hip and disappeared down into the glorious mysteries beneath his cover. There, on the silky skin that covered that hard muscle, was a perfect purple bloom. A hard, focused mouth had sucked at him there. She could imagine him rolling and gripping the sheet white-knuckled while it happened. She wanted to create a twin.

She met his eyes again, those luminous, hungry, absorbing eyes, and had to lean her head back against the jam as pure lust sluiced down her body from the tips of her ears to her toes. Did anyone ever say “no” to those eyes?

“You’re gorgeous,” he rumbled, the words slipping from his lips like sweets. “And sad. You don’t have to do nothing. Come in and watch. Or come in and let me and Sammy put our mouths on you.” The velvet tone, the incredible words, the mind-blowing suggestions, were like hypnosis. “We’ll only do what you want. But just…come in. You look like you could use some fun.”

She hiccupped a half-laugh, a half-sob at that, and wasn’t that a sexy reaction to a proposed threesome? When was the last time she’d had some fun? Between the constant deadlines and the book tours and the college visits and the house and you know, all the really depressing missing of her husband, when had there been space or energy for it? Or even a desire? Fun was one of the million things her husband couldn’t enjoy anymore.

But here, tonight, she felt like she’d stepped through a rip in her universe: into a motel she wasn’t sleeping in, a city she wasn’t even supposed to be in, and a pummeling rainstorm that would keep whatever they did in this room secret. Into the bedroom of two gorgeous, apparently bisexual men who made her feel safe and seen and sexy and who just wanted to give her “some fun.”

Fun? Hell, they might be saving her life.

“Okay,” she got out, jittery but fervently glad that she’d showered off a day of frustrating travel and airport waiting before she’d gotten into bed. “Okay. Okay, I—”

She startled to find that Sammy—Sam—had wrapped his hips in the blanket and was approaching her. He was even bigger and more beautifully blinding stretched vertical. He trapped the blanket around his tan, narrow hips with one hand while he held the other hand, elegant even though it was massive, out to her. She didn’t understand how someone could look so kind yet tempting at the same time.

Dean, she saw, was also holding out a hand, his sensual smile bearing more of a command.

There, just inside the doorway of this fleabag motel room, stood two mostly naked men who held their hands out to her because they wanted to include her in the magic they were creating. But they weren’t going to pressure her. They were going to make her choose.

She didn’t take their hands. Instead, she pushed away from the door jam. Tucked her hands into the top of their covers. And tugged them free.

As a sheet and a blanket fluttered to the floor, one 42-year-old widow stepped deeper into a fleabag motel room and kicked the door shut behind her.

The End


End file.
